Stories That May or May Not Involve A Cat
by msbaileyquarters
Summary: A series of one-off stories involving Arthur Fleck/Jennifer Cullen pairing from 'The Cat'-cut scenes from that story and from their time together after. There will be fluff. There will be angst.
1. First Word

**Warnings**: Fluff overload. Sorry but you'll probably get diabetes from this first one.

**A/N**: So I have some smaller ideas for the Arthur/Jennifer pairing created in **The Cat**, which I finished recently on here, and I thought I'd turn them into some bite-sized one-shots for y'all to…enjoy? Maybe? I donno…. I just sort of like the otp I made and wanted to write them some more occasionally. I also might have stol-borrowed a joke/gag from the Simpsons for this.. whoops.

This one involves their daughter's first word. Two guesses what it is.

...

Jennifer hadn't really adapted to their new apartment yet. Much less to her husband's sudden appearances through the hidden door in their bedroom wall.

"We can't install a doorbell or something into that Super Secret Door?" They hugged; he kissed her on the forehead, leaving a bit of red there. "Or better yet, maybe fit you with a bell?"

Joker chuckled. "That won't exactly do much for my menacing image, Dear."

"I know, that's partly why I suggested it."

Joker rolled his eyes, but continued to chuckle. "Yeah, yeah…." He headed for their bathroom, and Jennifer casually followed. Watched as he turned the handles on their marble sink and started washing his hands. "All this will be off and gone in a bit. I know how much it bothers you."

Jennifer shrugged, before leaning against the doorway, hands clasped behind her. She continued to watch as he gathered up a washcloth and some of her—well, it was more theirs now, since he used it just as much—cold cream.

"Ya know, um, Bernie spoke her first word today."

Joker stopped what he was doing. Grasped the edge of their marble sink as he leaned forward a bit. "She did?" he asked after a moment, trying to sound aloof, but Jennifer could see through it.

She nodded. "Yeah. You'll never guess what it was."

"What," Joker asked sullenly. He picked up the washcloth and squeezed it hard, despite the fact that he hadn't run it under any water yet. He was angry; how could he not be around for his child's first word? Sure, sometimes parents weren't fortunate enough to witness their offspring's first utterance, but—

"Joker."

"What?" He asked again, a bit more annoyed as he glanced at his wife in the mirror.

"No, goofy. Your name, your…other name," she shrugged. "She said 'Joker.'"

Joker turned off the water, turned around, and faced Jennifer upon realizing what she was saying. A big, toothy grin spread on his face. "Really? How?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes at herself. "I may have left the news on inadvertently, earlier today, and she may or may not have seen a story about you. I went to shut it off, and she said it to me."

"Huh." Joker couldn't believe it. He never let their daughter see him in the make-up and suit. She only ever saw her daddy, Arthur. The girl was so young, she probably wouldn't understand what or who she was looking at if he did appear as his alter ego in front of her, but he hadn't wanted to risk scaring her or anything.

Joker had an idea. He moved past Jennifer, into their bedroom, then out into the hallway.

"Wha—where are you going?"

"Where's Bernie? Bedroom or living room?" He turned back and asked as he continued walking.

"Living room, but what are you doing?"

Before Jennifer could stop him, Joker stepped up to the double doors of the living room and slid them open. Bernadette was there, sitting on the floor, playing with her bricks, carefully arranging them into something resembling a house or similar structure. She was so focused on what she was doing, she didn't look up when he entered the room.

"Bernie? Angel?"

To Jennifer's relief, their daughter looked up, and her eyes lit up at the sight of Joker. She smiled and giggled, as she clapped her hands.

"Hi Darling," he said to her.

She pointed a chubby finger at her father. "Jokah!"

Joker and Jennifer exchanged big, disbelieving smiles. He turned back to Bernie. "What was that, Angel?"

"Jo…Jo—ker!"

Joker was on cloud nine.

He swooped down and scooped up his precious girl into his arms. Hugged her close as he spun around the room, which elicited more giggling from his daughter.

Jennifer stood by, hands held together before her face, a little overwhelmed by how adorable this whole sight was and the love she felt for both people in front of her, temporarily forgetting all the issues she had with her husband's…profession.

Joker stopped in front of Jennifer. He booped Bernie on the nose. "Who loves you Angel, hmm?"

"Jooookeeerr!"

God, he thought he might cry.

"Angel, can you say, "'Daddy'?"

The girl sucked on her thumb for a bit, remained quiet.

"'Daddy?'" Jennifer repeated. "Can you say that sweetheart?"

"Joker!"

"Yes, Angel, but can you say 'Daddy'?" Arthur asked her.

"Joker," the girl repeated.

"Daddy."

"Joker!"

"Dadda."

"Joker!"

"Papa?"

"Joker! Joker!"

Joker shrugged. "Ehh, close enough." He kissed his girl on her cheek, again leaving a bit of red paint there, which he rubbed off with a saliva-wetted thumb. He pulled Jennifer in for a family hug, the two of them probably never feeling so content in their lives.


	2. Aftermath

**Warnings**: Alcohol use, some (imagined) descriptions of violence.

**A/N**: I just love them so much what can I say.

...

Nancy leaned over Jennifer, laying on the couch, her head turned to the right, fingers interlaced over her stomach, one foot laying over the other. Her overall sleeping position seemed too perfect for her to actually be asleep, Nancy thought, as she peered down at her friend.

Nancy poked Jennifer square in the ribs. "Hey, sleepyhead. We're supposed to have brunch today at 11, remember?"

Jennifer barely opened her eyes to glare at Nancy. "That doesn't sound like something I'd agree to do."

"You're a drunkard who likes to party on Saturday nights. Brunch was invented for people like you."

Jennifer groaned and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh no, you look great," Nancy complemented sarcastically. "Best I've ever seen you." She waved an index finger over Jennifer's face, smeared in a mess of make-up. "Is this intentional, by the way? It's hard for me to tell." Nancy was by no means a punk rocker. The women met at the laundromat. Jennifer wondered aloud why Nancy's clothes had blood on them; Nancy had the same query of Jennifer.

"I feel like shit."

"What else is new?"

Jennifer huffed, before throwing her legs over the side of the couch and rising quickly. She felt a rush of blood to her head and attendant dizziness, but she did her best to ignore it. She stumbled a bit on her way to her kitchen. Which did not go unnoticed.

"C'mon, I know you like to party, but this has been a bit much lately…."

Jennifer ignored her friend as she looked around her kitchen. She found what she was looking for in a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniel's. She swiftly twisted off the cap and downed a few gulps.

Nancy sighed. She shoved her hands into her overcoat as she looked off to the side. "You miss him that much." It wasn't a question.

"Miss who?"

Nancy laughed dryly. "Your psychotic clown boyfriend, that's who."

Jennifer gave Nancy an askance glare. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone right now."

"Ohhhhh no, that's the last thing you need."

Jennifer slammed the bottle of Jack down on her kitchen counter, so hard some of the liquid jumped up and out of the top. "I don't…." she started, but didn't finish. Nancy came up to her.

Jennifer shook her head. "It's just…. After everything else that's happened in my life…. Then this…." Tears welled up in her eyes.

She shook her head, took a deep breath. A dry laugh. "Best part is, because of all this…bullshit, I get to see his goddamn face everywhere—" She took the bottle of Jack and threw it full-force against the far wall of the kitchen, sending shards of glass flying and whiskey spraying.

Nancy knew she was referring to the constant news coverage of the riots and their aftermath; of Joker's turning himself in and his awaiting trial in Arkham; of his public defender trying to pull a plausible insanity defense out of the mess of a situation; of the Gotham City DA, an old friend of the Waynes, who was out for blood.

Jennifer let out a trembling breath, pursed her lips. Nancy could see the cracks forming.

"Hey," Nancy reached for her friend, grasped her arms and turned Jennifer toward her. "I know, okay? I know."

Nancy drew her into a hug. A few muffled sobs escape from Jennifer. They stood in silence for a while.

Taking a deep breath, Jennifer drew back. Nancy cupped her face.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up, then go gorge like pigs on some rich food, hmm? I got just the place…."

….

Everything was stark white. Clean. Sanitized. He was expecting it to have gone downhill considerably since he was last there, upon his turning himself in.

He laughed to himself. No one had expected that. The clown that had inadvertently started a movement, sparked days-long rioting and looting, had just waltz into Arkham of his own accord and turned himself in. They thought he would just vanish into whatever void he had walked cackling out of, or would be found and killed in putting up a fight, maybe ratted out by one of followers–something dramatic. Not some frail man in street clothes, mumbling and even apologizing to the admission nurse because he hadn't entered his home address right on the forms.

He was surprised to find how…mixed the treatment was this time around. Despite the meek manor of his surrender. His last stint in Arkham, he was met with indifference, scorn, condescension. There was certainly some of that this time around from a few of them, but there was also wariness, fear. Some of them were even…nice. Respectful.

Such as Bob, the orderly who kept watch over him most days.

"Mr. Fleck," he had addressed him the first time. Arthur was so unused to being so addressed, he had done a double take.

"Um, I'm just Arthur," he had shook his head.

"Some of us would disagree," Bob pointed out in a low voice, so no one around them could hear. "But whatever you feel comfortable with."

The days Bob was there, Arthur was always given hello's, please's, thank you's; he was promptly and politely reminded of and escorted to meals in the cafeteria, to recreation periods in Arkham's recreation hall, to meetings with his lawyer; the younger, bigger man did his best to ensure any mandated shackling wasn't too uncomfortable, that any amenities that could be extended to Arthur were—even if it was just ensuring that the harsh fluorescent lighting in Arthur's cell was extinguished at night, or the vents in the wall were properly piping heat into the room, or that the linens on his cot had been changed.

The guard who worked nights was one of the indifferent ones, which was fine, since Arthur was usually conked out on the cocktail of meds they fed him before that orderly would even start his shift.

The man who worked on the weekends and the occasional weekday was one of the bad ones. He gave no thought to Arthur's dignity or comfort. What did any of that matter, as long as the freak was kept in line?

That man was unfortunately working today.

Arthur's cell opened, and he opened his eyes to see the wiry man with a semi-permanent scowl enter at the far end of the room.

Arthur frowned at the sight of him, for a multitude of different reasons on this day. "What do you want?"

"Oooh, a little snippy today, aren't we Bozo?"

For a slight moment, like a flash of lightening in Arthur's brain, he considered jumping the man. Grasping his skull and ramming it, again and again, into the nearest hard surface, turning it into pulp, like he had someone else's head, a lifetime ago, but he pushed the thought away.

He had to be good. For her, least. If not for himself.

"Your new shrink is here to visit you."

He hadn't expected that.

Well, he knew his last one had quit. Bob had informed him of that. The Ivy League asshole with the spectacles through which he looked down at Arthur, his charge, the challenging Project he was sure all his education and intelligence could be used to fix, or at least considerably subdue. Of all people to have paired with the Joker.

"C'mon, I gotta get your jewelry on and escort you over to the visitor's room she's in."

She. Hmm. Another surprise. Not that it really mattered either way.

"Will this take long?"

"I donno. What does it matter? It's not like you're going anywhere."

Arthur opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. "I guess not."

As he was escorted through the bland, white halls of Arkham, he spotted his reflection in the windows that looked into certain rooms. He could see himself and see how much he had aged even just in these past few months. All the grey streaks and deeper lines that hadn't been there before.

The wiry guard–Dale–lead him into one of the visitation rooms, where inside, waiting patiently, was an African American woman, maybe somewhere in her 30s, dressed nicely. Officious. Professional.

His first reaction was to hate her, because she instantly reminded him of Deborah Kane, who had failed him so many times. Although…this one had a bit more life in her eyes, and dare he say, some sympathy in her face?

"Arthur Fleck, please sit down. My name is Leslie Thompkins, and I'm going to be your new therapist."

Arthur just stood, staring at Thompkins for a beat. Dale forced him down into his chair by his shoulders. He grimaced. "Gladly."

Thompkins turned to Dale. "You can leave now," she said simply, with a polite smile.

"Uh uh, regulations say–"

"The same regulations that were not followed two weekends ago when you were on duty and Mr. Fleck here reported being shoved into a wall, and having his restraints on so long that welts and bruises formed on his wrists and ankles?" She read off of a complaint form in the file bearing Fleck's name.

Dale rolled his jaw, as he looked hard at the woman in front of him. He eventually shrugged. "You deal with the freak as you see fit, I suppose." With that, Dale sauntered out of the room.

"There. Now it's just the two of us."

Arthur's eyes shifted down to the microphone pointed up at him, connected to a reel-to-reel recorder, before shifting back up to Thompkins.

"As you can see, it's not on. Tapes aren't moving. It's just the two of us," she reiterated.

Arthur just continued to stare at her.

She nodded; Leslie figured this particular patient would need a lot of cajoling before opening up. She reached down to the soft leather briefcase sitting aside her chair and opened it. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. She set them on the table between them.

Arthur eyed them suspiciously. "The other guy thought of that, too."

Leslie smiled. "I'm not that other guy. He supplied you a carrot after so many weeks of using a stick. I'm simply making a peace offering, right off the bat."

Without hesitation, Leslie reached forward and opened the pack of–Stuttons. Was that in his file that he liked those? He couldn't figure how. Maybe it was simply that it was one of the cheaper brands, and she had surmised correctly that for someone as poor as he was, it was most likely his preferred brand.

He sighed. Either way, he was craving nicotine so badly…. He accepted a proffered cigarette, kept his hands still as the good doctor even lit it for him.

His eyes closed as he took his first drag in a long time.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

"What do you want."

"Just to try and help you."

Arthur huffed disbelievingly at that.

Leslie flipped through his file. "Dr. Ainsworth spent four months poking and prodding–figuratively speaking–to determine what made you tick. To determine how. I'm more interested in why…."

The good doctor's voice was starting to fade out, as Arthur relaxed. The effect of the nicotine and the slew of drugs coursing through his system having a dulling effect. His mind floated away…landing on whatever thought, image, came to him.

Something Bob told him came to mind, and he started to smile. Eventually laugh.

"What so funny?" Leslie inquired.

Arthur imagined it: Dear old…Dad. Stepmom? Baby brother, as Jennifer had called him. The first two lying dead in a dinghy alleyway, the third looking on helplessly…. He couldn't have helped that. It wasn't his doing–not directly. One of his followers had done the deed. Indirectly, however, one could make a case. He thought back to what happened, tracing the causal chain of events backwards, on and on, until finally landing on a rich young man making eyes at his maid with the beautiful smile….

He continued to cackle, until he was hiccuping and wheezing. He shook his head. "Just…thinking of some–something of a joke."

"You want to tell it to me?"

He thought about that, but decided against it. "You wouldn't get it."

Leslie cocked her head. Interesting. Particularly as he started mumble-singing the lyrics to a song–Frank Sinatra? If she had to guess. Of course, Mr. Fleck was a fascinating case from a clinical standpoint, but she was skilled at always keeping sight of a patient's humanity, of their experiences and their effect. Despite living in Gotham for most of her life, she had been able to maintain a healthy empathy and sympathy with others, which she applied with care in her job.

"I know how hard it is to believe, after everything you've been through, but I am here to help you." From the same soft leather briefcase, Leslie produced an ashtray.

Arthur's eyes moved up to her. Alright, he would entertain her. She had been nice enough. "And how do you believe you're going to do that, Doctor?"

Leslie took a deep breath, before leaning forward. "Life is composed of many moments, good and bad. Lovely and horrible. Uplifting and traumatic. The good makes the bad bearable, enables us to go on, day and after day, as we try to navigate our way to living…an acceptable life."

Arthur scoffed. "A little late for me, hmm?"

"It's never too late for anyone, Mr. Fleck."

Moving his head side to side, Arthur whispered, "Much, much too late…." The sadness in the man's eyes did rend Leslie's heart a little.

"Well, let's consider Arthur Fleck in particular," Leslie proposed. "You've been indicted with the homicide of six people. Your public defender, Duncan, appears to think your best bet is to argue the M'Naughten defense. If he prevails, you'll likely spend the rest of your life here, in Arkham, but you'll be relatively safe. Freer, to see any loved ones or friends. If he doesn't, at worst, you'll be sentenced to die."

"Sounds lovely." Arthur stubbed out his cigarette in the provided ash tray. He looked at the box. "Can I have another?"

"Sure." Leslie pulled out another cigarette and lit it for him. God, how he had missed them.

"Which of the two options I just gave you, would you prefer, do you think?"

A cloud of smoke blew out of Arthur's mouth upon an aggravated exhale. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this woman. She was challenging him, in a way he wasn't entirely sure he hated, which in itself annoyed him. In a flash, he had an image of banging her head against the table, repeatedly, until the stark white room filled with blood, to where he was walking out, leaving behind a bloody trail, as he would inevitably run into some Arkham goons, who would try to tackle and subdue him.

Instead…he mulled over her options. There was a time when he would have been fine with death. Would have simply accepted that possibility. But her mentioning seeing loved ones made him think, long for, miss. Despise the idea of being taken from this world too soon.

"I guess, the first of those options would be better."

Leslie smiled. "That option will require more work. More…consideration, reflection. Change, for the better."

That still seemed like a tall order at that point, and he said as much.

"I have faith you can do it. I don't propose becoming a model prisoner, or patient, but someone who can find peace within himself."

"I don't see how that's possible."

Leslie questioned, with her eyes, with a tilt of her head, but remained silent.

"Too much…garbage from the past. Stuff you don't just…get over." He'd heard that a lot in his life: "Just get over it." It was grating, uncaring, irrational.

"As I said earlier, life is filled with good and bad. Both are inevitable. The former makes the latter bearable, they are inexplicably linked, and together, they give life meaning, if we can step back and give them the correct perspective."

Arthur eyed her incredulously.

"Tell me something, Mr. Fleck. Let's say you were offered the chance to erase all the bad memories–everyone of them–but along with them you lost every good memory as well. A sort of voluntary amnesia. Would you take it?"

What an odd question. Thompkins had stared straight into his eyes when she posed it to him; it wasn't read robotically off a sheet of paper.

He considered it. Almost immediately, his mind went to Jennifer–to all his memories of her, even the one or two moments that weren't so pleasant at the time–and he dwelled in her presence, even if only inside his own head. His mind also flashed to the rare times of joy in his childhood, of the scant times Penny had been a loving mother to him. To later, of children he had brought a smile to at birthday parties and hospital wards. To the hundreds cheering him on as he stood atop a broken cop car.

"No."

Leslie nodded. She opened up a notebook and switched on the recorder. "Let's get started."

….

It wasn't much longer before their hour and a half was up. Arthur still wasn't entirely sure about Leslie Thompkins and what she was offering him. It was so…different. And different could be good or bad. She did seem to care, but….

His thoughts were interrupted by Dale shoving him into his cell. In short order, he was freed of his shackles, and left alone to his own devices.

Arthur remained sitting on the edge of his cot, waiting. Finally, the knock came. "Time for lunch."

He stood up quickly. The door opened to reveal Bob, rather than Dale. "You ready?"

…..

"You've got to be kidding me," Jennifer said to Nancy, after the cab dropped them off at their destination.

Le Petit Coeur. If she remembered her high school French correctly, that translated to "the small heart." It was a strange though fitting name for one of the favorite restaurants of Gotham's elite.

"Why here?" No wonder Nancy had insisted Jennifer dress up a little–vetoing her usual leather moto jacket and jeans, and picking out slacks, a turtleneck, and electric blue blazer not worn in forever for Jennifer instead. Why Nancy herself was dressed in a billowy white blouse, tailored skirt, and heels.

"We're treating ourselves," Nancy announced proudly. "We deserve it." She locked arms with Jennifer before leading her inside.

They had been to this restaurant before. Once. On the eve of Nancy's short-lived marriage to her ex-husband, Jennifer had decided to spoil her friend with the fanciest lunch, shopping, a theater performance–the full nine yards.

They had dressed up even more then, but they still received disapproving looks from the restaurant's usual customers, who didn't recognize Nancy and Jennifer as one of their own.

It was such a strange contrast to now. Jennifer could even recognize some of the same people, but nearly everyone avoided their gaze, kept a guarded stance, spoke quietly. There was a certain tension in the air that was unmistakable.

Although, Nancy didn't seem to notice, or care. She waltz right in to the main dining room, following the matre d'hotel to their table. Odd–Jennifer had had to call ahead six weeks to reserve a table; Nancy had just announced their party size, and within 20 minutes they were sitting down.

Nancy immediately picked up the menu placed before her, surveying the available options. Jennifer took a moment before picking up hers. She was shocked to see the prices had also dropped considerably since they had last been here, though they were still by no means cheap.

Still, the whole thing was so strange.

"What happened?" Jennifer asked aloud, as she glanced around the room.

"Hmmm?" Nancy hummed as she took a sip of her chilled ice water.

"Things are so…different, since we were here last."

"Better, right?" Nancy smiled.

"I…I'm not sure. I guess?"

"All thanks to a certain someone."

Nancy hadn't said his name, but she hadn't had to. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since…that night, and the riots and everything that followed, the rich in this town are scared shitless. Staying home more often, avoiding their usual haunts, or leaving Gotham altogether." Nancy raised her glass. "And people like us get to reap the benefits."

It was hard for Jennifer to wrap her head around Arthur's actions having such far reaching effects.

"I think I need a drink," Jennifer announced, as she set her menu down.

"I figured." Nancy called on the nearest waiter, who was quick to wait on them. Within moments, Jennifer had a scotch in hand, and they had ordered their food. Jennifer enjoyed a well-cooked piece of salmon, before devouring her own creme brulee–which dessert they had had to share last time, to save money. Along with a few more drinks, and chatting and laughing about whatever with a good friend, Jennifer did feel better after brunch. She was grateful to Nancy for ignoring her and dragging her out like she had.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," Nancy asked later, as they stopped in front of Jennifer's building.

"I'll try," Jennifer said, somewhat weakly.

….

He was taking a huge risk, possibly being seen–having left Arkham at all, really. But he couldn't take it anymore. he had to try and see her, at least.

He was scared he was starting to forget what she looked like, even though it had only been months since he last saw her, not years. Not yet. He didn't have a photograph of her. At one point, he had asked for colored pencils and paper, and Bob ensured he got them. The ends weren't sharpened, and he didn't really have much artistic ability as it was, so he shortly found himself giving up on trying to recreate whatever was left in his memory.

Arthur looked up at his old building with a mix of hope and fear. If Jennifer was anywhere, it would be here. But it was also the one place where he'd be sure to be spotted. Bob had supplied him with sunglasses, a cap to tuck his hair into, shearling-lined jacket, and jeans–nothing he usually wore, but still. His face was already plastered over every newspaper and television screen; any former neighbor would surely spot him right away.

Bob had found a place across the street that seemed relatively safe, where they could smoke and drink, meld into the background, and hopefully go unnoticed. Arthur's nerves were still on edge, especially after almost an hour had passed and he still had seen no sign of Jennifer.

"So, this is where you used to live?"

Arthur nodded, but didn't take his eyes away from the building. "Yeah."

"I don't live too far from here, actually. Maybe we passed by each other sometimes…."

"Maybe," he mumbled. Arthur's eyes were still trained on the building, shifting between the entrance and the windows of Jennifer's apartment.

"Seen 'em yet?" Bob asked. He hadn't really explained to the younger man who he was so desperate to see. Jennifer was still his secret, one which he guarded jealously. He largely trusted Bob at this point, but one could never be too careful….

"No. Not yet."

"Ah…" Bob took a sip of the beer he was holding. He waited patiently at Arthur's side.

Arthur sighed, looked down briefly. "It's a woman…. I'm watching for a woman."

A little, knowing smile crept onto Bob's face. "I understand."

About ten more minutes passed in silence. His breath caught, when he finally spotted her. She was strolling up to the entrance of their building with someone else, reaching into her pocket for her keys. He hadn't immediately recognized her when she walked up; she was dressed in a bright blue blazer and turtleneck he'd never seen her wear before. But God, did she look beautiful.

He found himself moving forward. In spite of the great risk. In spite of the fact that she was with someone–that nurse, he determined, the more he studied the other woman.

A large hand came down on his shoulder, squeezed it gently. "Don't, Mr. Fleck."

Arthur took in a pained breath. "You're right…." He shook his head. "No, you're right, it's just–"

God, did he want to touch her. Run up and envelop her in his arms, crash his lips down on hers, and never let go. Express every inappropriate thought he'd had about her late at night alone in his cell, and then proceed to act them out with her, over and over and over again…. At the very least, he just wanted her to look at him, like he was looking at her now.

The nurse departed. Jennifer was walking through their courtyard, up to the entrance of the building.

Arthur was glued to the spot. He was transfixed by her, even so far away.

Jennifer felt strangely. Like she was being watched, which actually, as of late, hadn't been that unusual a feeling, but this was different. There was something vaguely…exciting? about it. Thrilling, yet not threatening. It felt good. Familiar.

She stopped, looked around. There were children playing in the courtyard, people hanging out the windows of her building and the others around, talking on the phone, smoking. People passing by on the street–

She spotted someone.

It couldn't be. He wasn't dressed like Arthur….

That wouldn't make sense. He was in Arkham, a highly secured facility where he was under constant watch–

"I always see you." His words echoed in her head.

Jennifer just couldn't be sure. But, if, on the small, miraculous chance it was him….

She raised her left hand, just slightly, and did a little wave.

The man made a similar gesture, waving back.

It could just be some random creep, or a neighbor, trying to be friendly. But the more she stared at the man, the more she was just sure.

Jennifer looked down, examined her keys, fiddled with her purse. Tried to look inconspicuous to whomever else may be watching.

She looked up, and touched her fingers to her lips for a moment, and let her hand fall toward him.

He did the same.

Jennifer pursed her lips. It took all her willpower to move, to force herself to enter her building and disappear from his gaze.

"Take me back," Arthur said on a shaky breath. "Please."

"Sure, Boss," Bob patted Arthur on the shoulder.


	3. 3 AM

**Warnings**: Fluff? But we can all use that about now.

**A/N**: Just a quick one. Also a return of a certain someone...

...

He trudged through the apartment with tired bones. A tired soul. It had been a long few days away from home. Sleeping wherever and eating whatever. He achieved what he wanted to at the end of the 72 hours, give or take, but it took so much out of him.

As he was nearing his 40s, there were times when he wondered if he would become too old for this work. If he wasn't already. As exhilarating as it was in the moment, it often left him feeling dead.

Their bed was empty. He hmm'd silently, smilingly at that, before going to wash off the make-up and blood. The sight of blood scared her; he never wanted to scare her. He had lied to avoid scaring her, as much as he'd hated to. But they were never huge lies involving big things, he'd rationalize, so it was okay.

Before he changed clothes, he peeked into Bernie's room. He was a little alarmed to find she wasn't sleeping in her bed, either.

He rushed about the apartment, looking in the kitchen, dining room, bathrooms, before finally, of course, finding them both in the living room.

The television was on, but turned low. Some old movie playing that he didn't immediately recognize. A large bowl holding a few stray popcorn kernels lay forgotten on the coffee table.

They were both laying on the couch. Jennifer lay facing the back of the couch, away from the TV. Bernadette lay facing her. Their arms were wrapped around each other. Nestled between Jennifer's pillow and the arm of the couch was Paulie, hunkered down with his paws curled beneath him.

Only Paulie stirred when Arthur approached. The feline opened his eyes and peered up at Arthur for a bit, before closing them and settling further into the couch.

Arthur smiled at the sight before him. It warmed his heart beyond measure. As long as he could always come home to this, everything would be okay.

He looked around, found a spare blanket folded over the arm of a chair. He grabbed it and, unfolding it, he threw it over the girls. Adjusting it, so it covered most of them.

As carefully as possible, he bent down and kissed his wife and daughter on the cheek. He gently moved a strand of hair back from Jennifer's face. He even gave Paulie a peck on his furry forehead; he could feel and hear the cat purring.

Arthur went to shower and change into a shirt and pajama bottoms, before coming back into the living room. He hated the fact that he couldn't somehow join his little family on the couch, but there was simply no room.

Instead, he settled for the nearby recliner. He managed to pull the handle without making much noise, so it shifted back. He reached up in time to grab the blanket draped over the back before it slipped to the floor. He threw it out over his tired limbs.

When he awoke a few hours later, Paulie was curled up on his lap.


	4. The Bowling Alley

**Warnings**: None

**A/N**: This is one of my random ideas of something I wanted to do during the main story of The Cat, but felt like this would have been straying too far from the main story.

And this is based on a true story. Lol

...

"What do you wanna do today?" Jennifer asked Arthur, as she stood in the doorway of her bedroom, clothed in only her old terrycloth bathrobe, shaking her still-damp hair out of a towel.

Arthur shrugged. He stubbed out his nearly-done cigarette in the nearest ash tray. Besides the occasional trip to a restaurant, a stroll through the nearest park, or the time Jennifer had taken to him to her favorite record store, most of their free time as friends and later as a couple was spent at home.

Partly, there was an unspoken understanding that, with Arthur unemployed, and Jennifer not wanting Arthur to pay for things he couldn't afford or else feel guilty for not contributing, the available options of activities were somewhat limited. Arthur had said something at one point about not wanting to be too far from Penny for too long, but Jennifer understood.

Much of their free time together was also devoted to...certain activities that often had them not really leaving bed, much less the apartment.

Still, it was about noon, they had just eaten, and Jennifer thought they could use a change of pace.

"Have something in mind?" Arthur inquired, as he took out another cigarette from a nearly empty pack and lit it.

"I do, actually..." Jennifer mumbled as she plopped onto the bed next to him. Her lips curled into a smile. "I...was thinking, have you ever been bowling?"

A cloud of smoke blew out from an amused, if also a bit uncertain, face. "What made you think of that?"

"My family and I would go a lot, back home..." Jennifer explained. "I always had fun when we did."

Uncertainty overrode amusement on Arthur's features. "I donno... I've never played before."

"It's not hard, and...honestly, we never kept score back home, really," Jennifer lied about the scoring; some of her cousins could be ruthless competitors when it came to any sport, and she had an uncle who was a stickler for keeping copious notes about anything and everything. It was more her own desire to forget about any scoring, besides enticing Arthur to try it.

Arthur took a drag of his cigarette as he glanced out the window, considering it. He turned back and smiled gently. "Sure."

...

Jennifer was regretting her choice as they walked the pier. She hadn't known Arthur's former place of employ, Ha Ha's, was located at Amusement Mile, which also had the nearest cheap bowling alley that Jennifer had been to and enjoyed, until he had mentioned it.

"Oh. We can go someplace else if you want?"

"No. It's fine." And nothing more was said of it.

Jennifer did watch Arthur closely; he seemed a bit glum, but that didn't seem too unusual since Penny had been admitted to the hospital. She also kept an eye out for any sign of the clown talent business—maybe more out of curiosity than a self-admitted desire to keep Arthur away from any physical reminder of past failings before even he spotted it.

They reached the Bowl-er-Rama without issue. It was busy but not packed. Jennifer paid for two games. She thanked whatever higher power above that the rental shoes they got weren't in too bad a shape.

They found their lane. They were flanked on one side by another couple and on the other by a trio of noisy teenagers. To Jennifer's relief, the teenagers left within a few minutes of their sitting down.

Arthur's loafers and Jennifer's sneakers were shortly switched out with their rented bowling shoes. Arthur stood up on them and padded around their space a bit, getting used to the feel of them.

"Bowling shoes are a bit weird," Jennifer smiled. "But our regular shoes would mess up the floor here, so they force these smelly things on us."

Arthur shook his head, smiled. "They're fine, just different." He wandered over to the ball rack behind them. Several, mustard and ketchup-colored balls with numbers stenciled on them sat, waiting for the next bowler. Arthur studied them. "Which one do you choose?"

Jennifer sat up and strode over to him. "You just use which ever one feels comfortable for you. And you can change balls anytime, if your current one isn't working for you."

Arthur pointed to one of the balls, particularly its stenciling. "Is that how much it weighs?"

"Yup," Jennifer confirmed. She reached forward and rolled some of the balls around on the rack. She found one marked 10 and picked it up, before heading for the lane behind them.

Arthur continued to stare at the bowling balls for a few moments. He rolled over a few, to find their weight marker. He finally settled on a 15 pound one. It seemed logical he would use one a few pounds heavier than Jennifer's; some male pride also colored his decision.

By the time he turned around with a bowling ball in hand, Jennifer had just finished her frame. Three pins at the end of lane remained standing.

"So close!" She huffed, exasperated. She smiled at Arthur. "Your turn."

"Okay..." He kicked himself for taking so long to settle on a ball; he hadn't had the chance to observe Jennifer and how she played, to know how he was supposed to.

He had of course seen people bowling on television before, maybe in a movie. But a hazy visual recall of what that looked like didn't seem all that helpful at the moment.

To hell with it, Arthur thought. He drew back, and did a little run before throwing the ball with all his might. It's trajectory arced slightly, before clanking resoundingly onto the oiled wood of the lane, and knocking down...exactly one pin, before guttering.

Arthur's shoulders slumped. He turned around to see Jennifer, who was sitting forward slightly, elbows on her knees, clenching her hands. He noticed as she quickly switched expressions from a furrowed brow to a bright smile.

Arthur shuffled over to her. "That was bad, wasn't it?" he chuckled uncomfortably. He sat down close to her, so close their legs touched; he was seeking some sort of physical solace from the embarrassment he was feeling.

Jennifer picked up on it. "Hey," she said, giving Arthur a peck on the temple. "Watch me." She scooped up Arthur's ball just after it rolled out of the return mechanism. It was heavier than she was used to, but she adjusted. She held the ball in both arms as she shuffled up to the lane. She looked down at her feet, stepped back a little, adjusted her position. She angled her body so her shoulders and hips were slightly slanted downward to the right. As she approached the lane, her right arm swung back and then forward, as her body further slanted to the right, to such a degree that her right leg left the ground and moved behind the left, on which she seemed to balance. Arthur couldn't really see or tell how the ball left her hand, but next he knew it was flying down the lane, before crashing into the grouping of white pins, knocking down all but two of them.

Jennifer turned around. "Wanna try?"

Arthur smiled meekly. "Can I watch you again?"

"Of course!" Jennifer retrieved her own ball from the returned ones and went through the motions of another ball delivery. Arthur watched her carefully, his eyes roaming every inch and noting every movement, but not for the reason he normally studied her so. Even then, he appreciated the beauty of what she was doing-something so simple as throwing a ball down a bowling lane.

As Jennifer's ball hurtled back toward the others through the return mechanism, she turned back to Arthur once more. "You wanna keep watching?"

"No, I think I'll give it a shot." Arthur stood, and quickly kissed Jennifer on the cheek as he passed by her. He found his 15 pound ball and hefted it up into his hands. He closed his eyes, recalling the the image he tried to imprint on his mind what Jennifer did, and he imitated what he saw: holding the ball, slanting his posture, swinging the ball back and then forward, leaning to the forward and side as he stepped up to the foul line and released the ball.

He couldn't breathe for a few seconds as he watched the ball travel swiftly toward the waiting pins. For a millisecond it looked as if it would just swerve into the right gutter, but it didn't; it stayed the course and smashed into and knocked down more than half the pins.

The look of sheer joy on Arthur's face as he turned back to Jennifer made her smile from ear to ear, and it made her soul leap for joy, thinking that he could get some happiness from this chosen activity.

However, as the game progressed, Arthur never really managed much more than maybe a spare in any one frame, and it seemed like his earlier joy had faded, even though they hadn't been keeping score.

At one point, after knocking over a grand total of three pins in one frame, Arthur glumly shuffled over to their seats, plopping into the one next to Jennifer.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "I bet you you hit a strike on your next turn."

Arthur looked at her, dubious. "I doubt it."

"You will!"

After Jennifer took her turn, Arthur stepped up to the lane with his ball. He took a deep breath, positioned himself...and proceeded to throw two gutter balls.

The gears in Jennifer's brain turned. The idea occurred to her as Arthur sat down next to her again and she rose to take her turn; she mulled over it during her frame. As she returned to their seats and Arthur got up again, she grabbed his hand. "Hey. Whatever you do, do NOT roll a strike on this turn. Ya hear me, Fleck?"

"Uh, yes?" Arthur was definitely confused, but he went along with it. He found his ball and went through the usual motions of his ball delivery.

The ball rolled down the lane...and knocked down all the pins in a strike.

Arthur quickly turned around to Jennifer, who looked as shocked as he did. Then both of them started to gradually started to laugh-to chuckle and smile at the irony of what just happened.

"I think, maybe," Jennifer started to say, as she slipped her arms around Arthur, who had walked over to where she sat, "we may have found your winning strategy-reverse psychology."


	5. Glass of Whiskey, Bottle of (Root) Beer

**Warnings**: Alcohol use.

**A/N**: Wrote this for a friend and fellow Arthur-lover, fulfilling a prompt request re: "How can you drink that stuff?" From early in Arthur & Jennifer's relationship when they were still friends.

**Words**: 1112

…..

Arthur had never been one for modern music. Rock 'n' roll…just didn't appeal to him much. He loved the classy tunes of his mother's generation–felt classy and suave himself when he listened to them.

Then he met the lovely lady down the hall. Allowed her to drag him to a concert. Sat on her living room floor with her and flipped through her vinyl album collection with her, listened with rapt attention as she spoke endlessly about her favorites, and eventually found he and her laying back on the floor, staring up at her yellowed ceiling while getting lost in each record, song, verse, and refrain.

He had to admit, the more his neighbor Jennifer was introducing him to, the more he was starting to understand the appeal of this newer music.

It had nothing to do with the woman herself…Arthur tried to convince himself. While part of him debated whether he didn't…like her–like, _really_ like her,–Arthur was genuinely excited to have made a friend at all. He couldn't really name anyone else he could rightfully call a friend of his. Gary at work, maybe? But he knew friendship consisted of more than just some pleasant conversation and the occasional shared lunch in the break room at work. It was meeting and talking and sharing interests and–

"Something wrong?" Jennifer asked him.

Oh God–he had been staring at her instead of the TV, hadn't he? She had already caught him doing it once, during one of his other visits, but to his relief, she had simply smiled and brushed it off. "Sorry, didn't mean to–" he quickly blurted out as he looked down, away. He didn't see as she simply smiled again.

"We can watch something else, if you'd like?" his neighbor–friend–offered. They were watching MTV again. Gotham was one of the areas in New Jersey to have access to the new cable channel from its very inception, about a month prior, and Jennifer was was in love with it.

"No, no," Arthur shook his head. "This is good. I've never really heard any of this music before…much less…watched it as well."

Jennifer gave a crooked, doubting smile. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Arthur nodded, smiling reassuringly.

Both of them returned their attention to Jennifer's TV. A poppy, upbeat song was playing. A bunch of leather-clad blokes playing, singing repeatedly about not being able to get enough of someone. The song made Arthur vaguely uncomfortable; if he had to say why, he would say it was a little too energetic for him, but he knew deep down it was more that the message of the song's lyrics was striking a nerve.

Jennifer, for her part, was sitting next to Arthur, reclined back into the plush cushions of her couch, but she was also vaguely uncomfortable. But also not for any negative reason…. Seeing people in the video with drinks in hand sparked a thought in her head.

Jennifer rose swiftly from the couch and headed for her liquor cabinet. Unlocking it, she found a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. She snatched up a glass, unscrewed the bottle, and started to pour some of the scotch whiskey.

"What are you drinking?" she heard from behind her.

"Oh, just some whiskey…."

"Can–can I have a glass?"

Jennifer turned back to look at Arthur, and he had to admit his breath caught as he watched her long, soft hair sweep over her shoulder as her head turned. "On the rocks or no?"

Arthur wasn't entirely certain what "on the rocks" meant, but he deduced that it probably had to do with ice. "No rocks, please."

"Sure." She grabbed a another glass and filled it about a third of the way, compared to her almost full glass. She wasn't entirely sure of her neighbor's preferences yet, and any wasted alcohol was always a tragedy.

Jennifer returned to the couch, two glasses in hand. She handed one to Arthur, who took it carefully.

Arthur was still staring down at the amber liquid held in his hands by the time Jennifer had gulped down about half of her drink. She looked over at him. "Anything wrong?" she asked gently.

"Oh, no," he smiled, shaking his head. He brought the glass up to his lips. His nose scrunched a little at the pungent scent of the liquid, but he didn't want to appear rude–anymore than he likely already had. He touched the glass to his lips and took a sip. The stuff tasted extremely bitter. He swallowed it, but it left a burning sensation in its wake.

"Bleh!" he couldn't help but exclaim.

"Hmm?" came from Jennifer's throat as she sipped more of her whiskey.

"How can you drink that stuff?" Arthur inquired as he set his glass down on her coffee table. "And…so much of it?"

Jennifer smiled again, which Arthur was a bit relieved to see; he was afraid he might have offended her with those questions, but at the same time his drink was so strong he couldn't fathom how the woman next to him was downing the same liquid with ease.

"I guess it's something you have to acquire a taste for…."

Arthur chuckled lightly. "Maybe I just have bad taste…" he offered.

Jennifer shook her head. "Everyone's tastes are different, and there's nothing wrong with that. Here–" Once again, she rose from her couch, but this time Jennifer headed for her kitchen. Arthur heard the sound of a hiss and something metallic hitting the floor, before she returned with a bottle of root beer in hand.

"No shame in liking something a bit sweeter," Jennifer said, with a wink of her eye, as she handed the bottle to Arthur.

Something about those words, that sentiment, reverberated in Arthur's soul, as he took the proffered root beer and took a sip of the sugary beverage.

Okay, he _liked_ Jennifer. A lot, in fact…..

"In the meantime, I'm stealing your drink," Jennifer said as she snatched up his rejected glass of whiskey. Perfectly fine by him.


	6. Hospital Visit

**Warnings**: Hospital stuff?

**A/N**: So I hate to admit this, but I'm feeling less inspired to write for this universe. I have a couple more ideas for 'The Cat'-related stories (including one where their daughter is an adult and a certain other Batman character makes an appearance…) that I'm dedicated to putting down on "paper," but after that…. I don't know. I guess certain other things in my life are ramping up and I find I have less and less time. And while I still adore our lovely man with all my heart…I donno. We'll see I guess. Anyway, onto the show….

**Words**: 1400-ish

...

Slowly, Arthur opened his eyes. He reached for Jennifer at his side, but instead his hand bumped into something hard.

"Ow."

He also felt something around his wrist. Odd, he never wore wristwatches or any jewelry…except for a gold wedding band he occasionally wore when at home, but never outside. Thinking of that ring made Arthur raise his left hand, but he was stopped short.

Through a blurred vision that wasn't clearing up, the glint of a fresh pair of handcuffs slapped around his wrist shined through.

Arthur's arm dropped as he sighed. Everything flooded back into his consciousness. The shoot out with the Falcone family over money–money acquired from shaking down local businesses in exchange for "protection." Oh, he and his men won that battle, but then the Bat showed up…. They played their usual game of cat and mouse, but Joker was distracted and he knew it. He let himself slip up. He hoped, and his brother pulled through: The next thing he knew he was flat on his back and that…what did his little brother call it? A "batarang?" Jesus. Anyway, one of those things was sticking out of his shoulder. The shock and blood loss led him to pass out….

Now here he was, laying in a hospital bed. An IV drip was hooked up to his other arm, which was also handcuffed to to the metal bars running along that side of the bed. A ceiling fan ran at a lazy speed above his head, as his vision finally came into focus. A TV was on, its volume low, in a high corner of the room.

Arthur exhaled a long breath as his eyes fluttered shut. Whatever they had him on, it was strong, but he could still feel some of the pain. But just maybe….

His eyes flew back open when he heard the door to his room creak open. Someone…a nurse…stepped inside. His drug-addled brain expected some flippant comment from her, or maybe some dry explanation as to why she was there, but he got neither. Instead, the woman inched closer and closer to his bed, almost as if she was afraid of making any noise or scaring him–

Arthur's forest green eyes widened as he recognized her gray-blue ones.

"Yeah, it's me," Jennifer said breathily as she pulled down her face mask, revealing a smile all for him.

He reached out to her–as much as he could with the cuffs. She took his hand and squeezed it, as her smile grew and was met with his own, wide smile.

She shook her head and laughed. "You idiot."

Jennifer stepped to the side. "C'mon sweetie." Next thing he knew, Arthur was staring into another set of gray-blue eyes, beneath a mop of wavy, chocolate-colored tresses.

"Hi Daddy!" Bernadette's voice was scratchy, weak. Which hurt Arthur's heart a little, but her bright smile could light up Gotham.

He didn't think it possible, but Arthur could feel his smile grown ten times bigger. "Hi Angel."

His little monkey, who would clime the banisters at home and all over the furniture and at her favorite park nearby, found footing on the side of his medical bed and hefted herself up. Her mother still helped her a bit, making sure she didn't get caught on anything or otherwise hurt herself.

Bernie curled herself up against her father after reaching up and planting a big kiss on his cheek. He reached down and kissed the top of her head. "How did your tonsil surgery go Angel?"

"Okay…." She sounded so small. He did his best to wrap his restrained arm around her. But she quickly shot up and sat on her folded legs, rocking back and forth on them in excitement. "I've gotten so much ice cream! And popsicles! All grape!"

"All grape, huh?" Arthur smirked. Bernie nodded vigorously. Jennifer was right behind her, also beaming at their girl. Arthur brought his hand over his wife's, which caused the cuffs to rattle against the railing.

Bernie noticed the noise. She looked down. "Daddy, why are your hands all like that?"

The beaming expressions quickly disappeared.

Arthur was quick. "Yea, Angel…. Sometimes Daddy has nightmares, so these help me so I don't thrash around at night."

"They don't look very comfortable…." Her little fingers felt around his wrist, around the cold metal of the cuffs. Arthur felt some embarrassment and shame at her seeing him like this, at having to lie to her like he did. But he didn't know what else to do.

"Well…. the more…comfortable ones, went to other people. It's okay…."

"Oh," she responded, accepting his answer. "When will you be home, Daddy?"

Arthur looked down, then looked up. A smirking look on Jennifer's face caught his eye.

"Uhh, pretty soon, Angel. Pretty soon." He squeezed his daughter's hand. "Mind your Mama, okay?"

"Okay," Bernie sighed. She climbed over the railing and down off of Arthur's hospital bed, again with her mother's help.

Suddenly, three knocks sounded at the door. Jennifer knew this was a sign from Nancy that they needed to exit the room as soon as possible.

Nancy had not been happy when her friend ran off back home with one of Gotham's most notorious criminals and had come back with a wedding ring and a baby–neither of which Jennifer ever explained to anyone. Even though she still had her suspicions about Penny, and she had also been watching the Murray Franklin Show that night, Nancy had become sympathetic to Joker's cause, especially after certain destitute patients at the hospital suddenly had their bills paid for, while others with past due medical costs suddenly found their debts wiped from Gotham General's records, and rumors swirled endlessly that it was handiwork of the Clown Prince of Crime and his followers.

After several years of seeing and hearing how her friend was taken care of–how Jennifer and her goddaughter Bernadette were safely ensconced in a protective bubble away from everything that made his life dangerous–how his purported insanity never seemed to cause either of them harm–she mostly warmed to Arthur personally as well. Even more than that, though, her love for her long-time friend and her friend's daughter made her quick to agree to help Jennifer with his clandestine meeting.

There was something Jennifer had to do before she left, though. She reached forward and down, and pressed her lips to Arthur's. They shared a hungry kiss. "Please return to me," she whispered to him.

He grabbed her arm before she could pull away. "Always," he whispered back.

She sighed. "And don't pull a stunt like this again, no matter how bad you wanna visit your kid in the hospital." She poked him near where the damned bat-thing had lodged in his shoulder, to punctuate her point.

Jennifer pulled away. She squeezed his hand before stepping away from the bed. She winked at him before turning to Bernadette. "Come on Sweetheart, we got to get you back to the children's ward."

Bernie moaned out loud; she didn't want to go, but she did as her daddy asked her to and minded her mama. She turned back briefly to Arthur and waved. "See ya later Daddy!"

Arthur did the best he could to wave back, constrained as he was…and grasping the small keys Jennifer had carefully slipped into the palm of his hand.

After Jennifer and Bernie slipped away, Arthur looked down to see that the handcuffs on his right wrist had also been unlocked, as they opened up and fell away.

What a woman, he thought, as he quickly went to work to unlock the other handcuffs.


	7. The Two Jokers

Warnings: Not really any.

A/N: Yooooo, happy anniversary/birthday y'all! It's hard to believe it's been a year since our darling Clown Man appeared on the scene, but then again it feels as if the last several months have been a whole ass decade on their own. I actually first watched the movie that Sunday, Oct. 6, so I might rewatch then. In the meantime, I got around to writing this one shot that I've been thinking about ever since I finished The Cat and wanted to continue writing little stories in the same universe. Arthur is not in it a lot *strictly speaking*, but he is a strong presence. I also hope I haven't horribly mangled another beloved character in the process

Word Count: 5000+ my apologies...?

...

Bernadette groaned as she pushed herself back from her drafting table. She surveyed half-done plans laid out before her, illuminated by the yellow light of the lamp clipped to the far right corner's edge. They'd have to be submitted soon, and her latest client wasn't one to be kept waiting.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned. Her long, curly dark brown hair had fallen out of its bun, so she pulled out the scrunchy it was in and gathered it up anew into a fresh, though still somewhat unruly, bun at the top of her head.

The stained coffee cup to her left caught her eye. She picked it up and peered into it, seeing a pool of stagnant, stale coffee at the bottom, with a few cigarette stubs floating around in it.

"Mmm," she grimaced. She hopped off her stool and headed for the kitchen to make a fresh pot. Mama would undoubtedly make some remark about how much coffee grounds she was shoveling into her coffee maker, especially for a late night, or rather, very early morning, pot. Put some cream or sugar in it, for gosh sakes, be kind to yourself, she'd probably say. Daddy would just smile and ask if he could have a cup.

She watched disinterestedly as the machine drip, drip, dripped dark liquid into the glass carafe. The first sound barely registered in her mind. But the next was loud enough to make her turn her head toward her living room.

Bernadette let the carafe completely fill, and poured herself a cup, before grabbing one of her larger kitchen knifes as she headed out. The third sound, which came when she was traveling down the hallway, was definitely the mechanism in the hidden door in the living room. That all but guaranteed-

"Hello beautiful," he said as he turned to her, upon hearing the double doors slide open quickly. His gloved hands were behind his back. He was turned toward the side table that held all their family pictures; seemingly he had been looking at them. Bernadette felt some annoyance, but also pity. From what little she knew of him, he didn't have much, if any, family to speak of.

"Dad would probably shoot you if he heard you call me that," Bernadette half grimaced, half smirked.

His eyes fell on the knife in her hands; oh yeah, he had a thing for knives, didn't he? She sighed and turned around, tossing it onto her drafting table, where it thudded and clanked against some of her tools.

"Why are you here?" she drawled.

"Why am I ever here?"

She sighed heavily, looking down. "Someone tried something again, didn't they?"

He stepped up to her. He reached up and booped her on the nose. "Ah, perceptive girl. I *like* that." He was growing bolder with each one of his visits. It bothered her...in the sense that it didn't really bother her, at least less so with each visit.

Daddy-Arthur-Joker-the *original* Joker-had made him promise, before he fully handed over the mantle several years before. "If you take this on...you have to look out for and protect my little girl. Always."

When she'd first seen him, was actually introduced to him, she felt disdain. Daddy had always looked so regal, yet intimidating. The purple color scheme felt off, the more emo-style make-up like he was trying too hard, the scars...

"I trust you took care of whatever it was," Bernadette commented quietly, before taking a sip of her freshly made coffee as she looked down.

"At your service, Princess." It didn't sound the same, when he said that, compared to when Daddy would call Mama that. It didn't sound as gentle; it sounded more condescending, coming from him. More so, when he would proceed to do a little bow, such as he did now.

He turned on his heel to leave. "Do you hate me?"

He looked over his shoulder at her, and narrowed his eyes.

"No."

He proceeded to leave.

"It's just, um," Bernadette started. She set her coffee aside. "It kind of feels like I'm this burden that Dad set on you, and you maybe feel like...resentful, that you have to babysit me to some degree, instead of...taking care of actual business."

He turned on his heel again, and moved to sit down on her couch. He even crossed his legs. He looked up at her expectantly.

Bernadette's mind somewhat short circuited. He had never stayed before. His visits-at least those she was privy to-were always brief, fleeting.

"Do you want some coffee?" was all her mind managed at first.

Those damaged lips curled into a smile, which she read as a Yes.

Bernadette went back into her kitchen to retrieve the still-warm pot of coffee. Before heading back, she also reached into one of the kitchen cabinets for the perfect additive.

He smirked even more upon seeing what she had in her right hand as she handed him a mug of coffee with her left. "Dewars. Not a bad brand." He held out his cup of coffee, and she poured some of warm, honey-colored liquid into it.

"Not one of Mom's favorites. Probably why I always have it in our pantry."

Bernadette poured some of the whiskey into her own coffee mug before settling into the couch across from him. She watched as he brought the cup up to the same scarred lips and took a sip. He closed his eyes. Perhaps to savor his drink, perhaps in pain

"Do they hurt?" she offered, but he simply shrugged.

"Dad could never get a straight answer out of you about them. About...much of anything do with you."

He remained quiet.

She sighed, lowering her cup into her lap. Bernadette reached into the back of her mind, back into her memories, rummaged through saved thoughts and images and voices she kept, some fading like old pictures in an album collecting dust, but some as vivid as ever.

Daddy was getting tired. But as time ticked into the next millennium, the same old war between he and his brother raged on as always, and being The Joker was so a part of him, was him, that it would be like tearing out his lungs or his brain or stomach to end that part of his life, to take it away. But he was tired...and he was now in his 50s and while the greasepaint and the hair dye and colorful clothes could hide a lot, it couldn't hide everything.

It was September 11th, of all things. She could recall so vividly: everyone at her high school being sent home suddenly, a black car whisking her home quickly, her parents sitting in the living room, glued to the TV. Seeing both of them at home, during the day, was so bizarre.

Daddy also didn't go out at all as his alter ego for almost a week after-also odd. Bernadette could still hear the sound of a ceramic plate shattering at her mother's feet when Daddy mumbled something in their kitchen about maybe wanting to quit.

She could vaguely recall several closed-door conversations between her parents, after that. But Daddy did go back, and things seemed to go back to normal. But at some point she remembered he would talk more and more about his followers with her and her mother, about the closest ones to him, what he thought of them...

He never sounded enthusiastic until a few years later he would bring up this young kid, a total reckloose who did everything Daddy ordered him to do without hesitation, and sometimes more. A bit uptight; he would never shed his clown mask or make-up and simply kick back with the other followers at their various hideouts. He would stand or sit off in a corner, sharpening his knives. Daddy would say he'd almost have to force him to take care of any wounds he'd receive in the midst of their wreaking havoc across the city. "You can't live to ruin another day of theirs if you just let yourself bleed out, son."

Sitting across from Bernadette in their apartment-up in the Castle, as he would sometimes call it-he felt hot. Various reasons why. In part, he wasn't used to the artificial temperature control, the coziness; the throw blankets next to made him vaguely uncomfortable.

Most nights in the old days were spent out in the streets. Just wherever he could pull up some garbage or discarded carpets or anything vaguely comfortable enough that he could eventually fall asleep. Rainy nights were the worse-he'd have to find something to hang over himself, or he'd risk almost drowning because of his damn mouth hanging open and catching the rain water.

He could still feel the gentle kick to his ribs that woke him up, early one morning. "Get up son."

He turned over to see his boss staring down at him-in full Joker get up. What he hated the most was all that pity in his eyes.

He grumbled. "How the fuck did you find me?"

A little chuckle bubbled up. "You should know by now I have my ways."

He turned away. "Leave me alone, please."

He'd heard The Joker sigh. "Sergeant John Patrick, Serial Number 29798492. Army veteran of the Afghanistan and Iraq Wars. Later...part of a super secret group of special forces; what you were up to there even I couldn't find out. Deceased, as of a couple of years ago, after hopping between a few VA hospitals. Diagnosis: Severe PTSD, extensive facial scarring, among some other things."

He had turned around, angry, hurt, vulnerable. Things he did not like to be. "Please go away."

Joker-Arthur-bent down, reached out a hand. "Son, let me help you. I know what it's like-trust me."

He'd stared at that hand for a long time, before finally taking it.

It's part of what made him so uneasy now, sitting in the Castle. He knew what he owed The Joker. He had a much more comfortable bed where he usually slept now, and the number of times he'd imagined his mentor's daughter in that bed with him he was ashamed to admit. It felt like such a betrayal even having those thoughts-acting on them was out of the question. Maybe, if she was offering, he could at least have a different kind of intimacy from her. "Why don't you tell me bedtime some stories, Princess. About him, about your family."

Bernadette looked up from another sip of her spiked coffee, surprised at first, but then she just shrugged. "What is there to tell? By and large a happy family, ya know?"

"By and large..." he echoed. "I like to think I'm good at numbers, and that doesn't sound like 100%."

Bernadette sighed. She looked off at nothing. "I didn't always know, ya know? What-who he was. I guess there was a few times when I was a baby that I saw his alter ego, but I never remember seeing him as The Joker. My parents argued, but no more than most parents. In fact, they fucking loved each other. So much. Watching them was like watching a couple of teenagers. Frequently making out on the couch, sneaking away to their room. Kinda grossed me out as a kid, but I guess looking back I can appreciate how much it meant they were just crazy for each other..."

"Just funny in all those years you wouldn't bump into the Clown Prince of Crime or know somethin' was up?"

Bernadette was a quiet for a moment, lost in her own thoughts. A sad smile swept over her face. "You know how some kids' dads will dress up like Santa Clause and pretend to come down the chimney and give them their gifts and all that shit? My dad was a little different... A few times for my birthday, I remember this clown named Carnival would come bouncing into the room, and he'd spend a few hours just doing all these silly acts, making balloon animals, and the like. I got so confused one year when, right before he had to leave for whatever fucking reason my mom dreamed up, he gave me the tightest hug, and I could hear him sniffling, and see how watery his eyes were.

"I knew something was up. Especially when it occurred to me at one point that my dad, just as my dad, never attended my birthday parties-at least any of the ones where my friends were present.

"'He's a comedian,' she'd say, 'and a performer... he's always traveling to perform in different places, so Daddy can't always be home, Sweetheart.' That was satisfying enough an answer for me, I guess. Though I remember thinking, gosh, Daddy's job sounds so exciting, so why does Mama always seem so sad and worried when he wasn't home?

"I remember asking if we could see Daddy's act, but she said it wasn't for children."

Bernadette shrugged. "If I started asking questions about something that seemed off compared to my friends' parents or what I saw on TV, it would somehow be explained away that it was part of Daddy's act or something.

"I wasn't a rebellious child. For whatever reason, I just didn't feel the need to act up a lot. But around when I turned 14, I thought it would be a good idea to come out and sneak a few midnight sips of this bottle of sherry Mama had bought." He spied the amused look on her companion's face."It tasty and forbidden, so shoot me."

"I figured I was safe, once my mom was fast asleep and with dad seemingly out of town. But in sneaking out to the kitchen one night, I just had to bump into The Joker, just standing in the middle of our hallway. It didn't help that whatever he'd been up to earlier in the evening had caused him to be covered in a lot of blood-thankfully, it turned out, not his, but still fucking terrifying to see either way at the time.

"Actually, I think in my grogginess and confusion, I didn't know what to think or feel when at first. Then I screamed up a storm.

"'No Angel, it's me, it's me!' he said, this desperate look on his face, and Mama just telling me to 'shut up, please, for gosh sakes! You'll wake everyone up!' Daddy got frustrated, and just dragged me into their master bathroom. Surely, I was about to be murdered, and I was so upset that my mother was just standing there, doing nothing to save me.

"As quickly as he could, Daddy scrubbed away the greasepaint and tried to flush out some of the green hair dye, so he could show me it was him, after all. I remember some of the makeup got in his eyes and he started to cry a bit." Bernadette grimaced. "I didn't know what to think; my brain couldn't process this new information

"Then I got mad.

"Mad at myself, actually. Looking at a face somewhere between Daddy's and one of the most waned American criminals of all time, I wondered how the hell I hadn't seen it before. How I hadn't seen through my mother's flimsy stories and excuses. How it was that Mama had an...okay job, and I guess my dad did well 'on the road'-even though of course no one had ever heard of 'Jack Napier,'-but we lived in this million-dollar penthouse that earned me so many jealous looks and backtalk from my friends from school. How I had my mother's name and not Daddy's. How it was that my father was never at my birthday parties or...was really missing from so much of my life.

"Mama pulled me aside and made me promise not to tell anyone; all our lives depended on it.

"I didn't know what to do. So for a little while I was a good girl and did as I was told, and pretended everything was normal, but eventually my anger turned outward at my parents. Realizing how many people my father must have killed over the years, despite the whole Robin Hood reputation he had overall...how my mother could be okay with all this bullshit..." Bernadette's hands squeezed around her now cold mug of spiked coffee; it didn't go unnoticed by the Joker in front of her now.

"So one day, I decided to run away. Fuck 'em, as my mother often said.

"I had the whole thing planned out, where I'd go and how. I figured running away earlier in the day would be safer. I mean, I was already supposed to be at summer school classes-stuff like history and English bored me to tears in school, back then. But anyway, by the time they called my parents, I'd be gone. Or so I thought.

"I was so shocked when I saw him walk toward me at the bus station that day. I rarely ever saw him out in public...anywhere. He had that look on his face-disappointed, in me but also himself. I'd seen it more than once; it always made it feel like when I fucked up, he felt it was partly his fault as well. Like he took it so damn personal.

"'Hey,' he said as he sat down slowly next to me."

"'What are you doing here?' I hissed. 'Aren't you afraid of being seen?'

"'Not really,' he shrugged. 'Few people remember what I really looked like without the make-up. And ya have to admit, I haven't aged all that well over the years-'

"'That isn't true. You look the same as you did when I was a little kid.'

"'Hmm,' he smiled. He looked over at the ticket counter, at the ticket agent who just briefly glanced up at my father before returning his gaze to whatever he was doing. 'I have my eyes in a lot of places.'

"I rolled my eyes, shook my head. 'What do you want.'

"'To bring you home. Your mom is worried sick.'

"I folded my arms. 'Why didn't she come?'

"'She's...drinking again.'

"I knew what that meant, and knowing that kinda hurt; she would occasionally have a drink here and there, particularly when dad hadn't been home from "touring" for several days, but actual benders had become rare.

"My hands dropped into my lap. 'I don't know what to think anymore. You...him...were always a bad guy growing up.'

"The whole time I had been sitting at that bus station, I had been watching this family who were about to get on the same bus as me. A mom and dad, their little boy, and their parents. I couldn't not notice them-the boy was playing on a Game Boy Color, sound turned all the way up. He appeared to be winning whatever he was playing, and his grandfather especially was taking a lot of interest.

"Maybe Daddy thought I was spacing out... I'm sure I looked sad at that moment, given what I was thinking. He reached out and took my hand, flipped it so my hand was on top, and started rubbing my palm with his thumb.

"I looked over at him, while quickly swiping away a tear with my free hand. 'I mean, who or where even are my grandparents?'

"I could feel Dad stiffen through the hand that was holding mine. "'Passed on.'

"'But how, where? I mean, I've seen pictures of Mom's family, but what about yours?'

"Dad closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. 'If you come home, Angel, I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything.'

"I hung my head. 'Fine.'

"I think I lost my head a little when he told me that, of all people, the great Thomas Wayne was supposed to be his father, and I guess then my grandfather. 'There's no way...'

"'Your...grandmother used to work for him and his family.' I could tell using that term seemed so foreign to him.

"'Who was she?' "He seemed even more hesitant to talk about her, which had me nervous. 'Dad?'

"He rubbed the back of his neck, looked away. 'Penelope Fleck. Though I always called her Penny. She was always sick.' I could hear the disgust creeping into his voice. 'So I took care of her, for a long time. Then...'

"'He killed her,' Mom called out from across the room. A bottle of Jack was in her left hand, as she leaned against the far doorway.

"I turned back to Dad. 'You...you what?' I knew he killed people who had attacked him, physically or mentally. Had killed in the course of his work, in order to protect others. But his own flesh and blood...

"'But she let his boyfriend beat him when he was a boy, among other things, so I guess it was only fair.' Mom took a swig from her bottle.

"Dad gave her the darkest look, and it scared me beyond belief, considering I'd just found out he had killed his own mother years ago. In a way, I couldn't blame him; something like that was his to tell, not Mom's, and not so flippantly."

"Did he do anything to her?" Joker asked.

"No, of course not. I just...felt like I didn't know who my dad was at that time. I didn't know if I could trust him."

A grandfather clock chiming out in the hallway pulled the two out of Memoryland. Their eyes met, and locked for a few, heavy moments, before Bernadette's traveled down his frame, to land on the cup he was holding. "Do you want anymore? Coffee-I mean?"

"Sure." He held out the cup for her to take. She walked over to him and reached for it; she noticed, with his shirt cuff pulled back, that he was injured.

"Oh God, you're bleeding," she said as she plopped down next to him and immediately pulled back his sleeve more to ascertain the full extent of his injury.

Joker barely glanced at it before gently pulling his arm away and shrugging his shirt back into place. "It's fine."

Bernadette just rolled her eyes as she rose from her seat, snatched up his cup, and headed out of the room. He was annoyed when, some minutes late, she came back not only with a refreshed cup of coffee, but also a first-aid kit.

"You don't have to go through all that trouble..." he said as she set everything down. She safely assumed he'd want another shot of Dewars in the coffee.

"Nonsense," she said, as she opened up the first-aid box and started rummaging around for alcohol wipes. "Especially if this is fresh. Means you probably got it in the process of protecting me, and I'm going to feel supremely guilty if I can't help you take care of it."

He wanted to protest more, to stop her, but a larger part of him didn't and won out. He reached for his mug and sipped away at his whiskey-spiked coffee as he watched her gentle, deft hands roll up his sleeve and clean away the blood from a moderate cut to his wrist. Personally, he was more sorry that whatever it was had cut his purple gloves...but maybe it was worth it if bought him this moment.

"Do ya miss 'em?" he asked, because it felt like some words needed to be spoken to break up the headiness around them.

"Oh yeah, but ya know," she shrugged. "It is what it is."

Joker nodded. "The Bat had upped his game. Brought on that redhead, and the kid. Starting using that tank and military grade-stuff. It was just beyond your dad, I think."

"But definitely not beyond yours," she peaked up from his arm, where she was wrapping a gauze bandage around the wound. "Isn't it? That's part of why he chose you."

Joker avoided her gaze, and changed the subject. "'Gotta head home to the wife and kids,' he'd say a lot, before leaving us to our own devices, after a job or whatever. Hmm. The others thought he was joking. I always kinda wondered."

"You didn't think he was joking." She affixed the bandage with some first-aid tape.

"I knew he wasn't; that wasn't what I was wondering."

Another shared gaze, a little longer this time. He took a sip of the coffee without looking away.

"I had a little brother, you know," she shared, without breaking their eye contact. "Didn't make it to his own birth, but God...they were so excited, I was. It broke all our hearts when my mom lost it."

Seeing the question in Joker's expression, she explained. "You may hate hearing this, or at least me saying it, but Daddy thought of you as the son he didn't get to have."

He felt like shit at that admission. There was unacknowledged pride, but more than that, it made him feel even more like a shithead that he felt the way he did toward Bernadette.

He took a long gulp of his spiked coffee before rising swiftly from the couch. "Better be going. Got some fires to start or stoke."

Bernadette rose herself. "Be careful-" she started, "-I mean, as best you can, I guess."

They were not even a foot apart. "Hmm." He raised a gloved hand to her face, and his fingers just barely grazed her jawline, before he let his hand dropped away. "You come to trust your dad, eventually?"

"Of course," she semi-whispered, her voice revealing just how tired she was. "He's my dad, I love him. He loves and has always protected us, no matter what. And I guess that's all that matters at the end of the day. Maybe not easily, but...the other stuff can be forgotten."

"I see," Joker said, Bernadette's words being added to some formulation in his mind. To plans that would likely be acted on at some point.

But not tonight.

"See you around, Princess." He again turned on his heel to leave. "Consider maybe putting some interesting feature in the Wayne building you're helping to design." He looked back at her as he engaged the secret door in the living room. "A slide, two-way mirrors, a bomb-ya know, something fun."

With that, he slipped out of the room and was gone.

Bernadette shook her head and laughed. She picked up her coffee mug and headed back to her drafting table. She set aside the knife she'd brought out earlier, but in the process her hand moving over her cell phone, causing the screen to light up, and she spied a new message from her mother.

She opened up her messages application.

Mom: What's he doing there? Is something wrong?

Bernadette guessed the penthouse's elaborate security system, with its hidden cameras and satellite link to her parents' phones while they were on the road, had alerted one or both of them to Joker' presence.

Me: What are you doing up? Are YOU guys okay?

Mom: We're fine, your father just couldn't sleep. In Oregon right now. It's beautiful here. Now answer my question.

Me: I guess someone tried something, but he took care of it. It's okay.

Mom: Sigh. That doesn't sound okay to me, but at least he took care of it.

Me: Have you driven that RV some more?

Mom: Oh yeah. Your Daddy is proud, but I still make him drive it more. Haha.

Me: Sounds right. Miss you guys 3

Mom: We miss you too. Ur Daddy says Hi Angel. We love you. And with him...remember what I told you about clowns.

Me: Okay... love u too.

Bernadette set the phone down, smiling despite herself at her mother's last words. She decided, as she looked down at her work with bleary eyes, that its completion could wait. Tomorrow was another day.


End file.
